A plan of fair devising when battle feuds were rife;
To save by lesser sacrifice, a needless waste of life.
Three brothers Curiatii, choice of the Alban band,
Against three brothers Horatii, Rome's proffered champions, stand;
Should Horatii assert their might, the Alban arms would yield,
If Curiatii, then should Rome to servile fate be sealed.

Well fought those manly combatants in sight of either host;
The struggle wavered long and keen, high hopes were rudely tossed;
But strength, upborne of courage, wanes before time's fatal throes,
The brave may strive yet striving fall, as fell those rival foes
Save one, who owed to strategy what prowess might not yield,
A Horatii stood conqueror on Alba's blood-stained field.

Rome is avowed the victor, the battle-sword is sheathed,
And round Horatius' youthful head gay triumph's crown is wreathed:
'Mid gratulations of the camp, 'mid cheerings of the throng
The hero who hath slain to save, is proudly borne along,
When Hark! beyond the joyous notes which stir the balmy air
Upwafteth to his ears the sad reproaches of despair.

"Oh! woe for my belovÈd! My love who loved me so; Oh cruel hand! Oh evil fate! Which laid the mighty low.

"Oh brother! dearly hast thou earned Thy country's noblest boon; Thou'st quenched the lustre of my life Ere reached its bright, high noon.

"Thou comest laden rich with spoils, Thy valor to attest; One only trophy greets mine eye, His cloak upon thy breast.

"Go! list the plaudits of the crowd Whose liberties you save; One only voice thrills through my soul, That voice from out the grave.

"For thee shall golden goblets pour, And glorious rosebays twine; For me—my heart lies low with his Whose heart was wholly mine."

Oh maiden! for that prudence which looks beyond the hour;
Oh for that subtle wisdom which holds the key of power!
For calm and callous reasoning, which worketh out its plan,
Which checketh honest principle, and dupeth craft of man.
As in these nigher ages, so in those earlier days,
Keen wit, cool wisdom e'er dissolve beneath Love's fervent rays.

Is it fatigue of battle? why pales the warrior now?
Is it chagrin in triumph's hour which clouds that martial brow?
Both lend their aid, yet greater far than aught on earth beside,
The sore and bitter struggle 'twixt love and wounded pride;
'Twixt patriot-love and brother-love, the love of life's young day;
When sympathy of sisterhood charmed every grief away.

Horatius paused; out flashed the sword which drank her lover's blood;
He plunged it in his sister's heart, he slew her where she stood;
And, as he sheathed the reeking blade which struck the dastard blow,
"So perish every maid" he said "who wails a Roman foe!"
Oh cruel fate! Oh hapless twain! Oh tragic scenes of old!
Go! thank high Heaven these later times are cast in Christian mould.